Elizabeth laughed softly.

“My dear father,” she said, “you will really have to take something for your nerves.  Nothing need happen to Mr. Pritchard at all unless he asks for it.  He has his chance—. no one should expect more.”

“You are right, my dear Elizabeth,” declared Crease, speaking very slowly and with his usual drawl.  “This question of his health for the future—­at any rate, for the immediate future—­is entirely in Pritchard’s own hands.  There is no one who has received so many warnings as he.  Bramley was cautioned twice; Mallison was warned three times and burned to death; Forsith had word from us only once, and he was shot in a drunken brawl.  This man Pritchard has been warned a dozen times, he has escaped death twice.  The time has come to show him that we are in earnest.  Threats are useless; the time has come for deeds.  I say that if Pritchard refuses this trifling request of ours, let us see that he leaves this house in such a state that he will not be able to do us any harm for some time at least.”

“But he will give his word!” the professor cried excitedly.  “I am quite sure that if you allow me to talk to him reasonably, he will pledge his word to go back to the States and interfere no longer with your affairs.”

Pritchard turned his head slightly.  He was a little pale, and the blood was dropping slowly on to the floor from a wound in his temple, but his tone was contemptuous.

“I will give you my word, Professor, and you, Elizabeth Gardner, and you, Jim Post, and you, Walter Crease, that crippled, or straight, in evil or good health, from the very jaws of death I will hang on to life until you have paid your just debts.  You understand that, all of you?  I don’t know what sort of a show this is.  You may be in earnest, or you may be trying a rag.  In any case, let me assure you of this.  You won’t get me to beg for mercy.  If you force me to drink that stuff you are talking about, I’ll find the antidote, and as sure as there’s a prison in America, so surely I’ll make you suffer for it!  If you take my advice,” he went on slowly, “and I know what I’m talking about, you’ll cut these ropes and set open your front door.  You ’ll live longer, all of you.”

“An idiot,” Elizabeth remarked pleasantly, “can do but little harm in the world.  The word of a person of weak intellect is not to be relied upon.  For my part, I am very tired of our friend, Mr. Pritchard.  If you others had been disposed to go to much greater lengths, if you had said ‘Hang him from the ceiling,’ I should have been well pleased.”

Pritchard made a slight movement in his chair—­it was certainly not a movement of fear.

“Madam,” he said, “I admire your candor.  Let me return it.  I don’t believe there’s one of you here has the pluck to attempt to do me any serious injury.  If there is, get on with it.  You hear, Mr. Walter Crease?  Bring out that bottle of yours.”